


and through it all, how could you cry for me?

by velvetvelour



Category: Silent Hill (Video Game Series), Silent Hill 4: The Room
Genre: Childhood Trauma, Cults, Demonic Possession, Developing Friendships, Drabble Collection, F/M, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Gender-neutral Reader, Ghosts, Haunting, Horror, Living Together, M/M, Multi, Past Child Abuse, Post-Canon, Reader-Insert, Roommates, Slow Burn, all that jazz, at least vaguely, but walter is a ghost so, except i really dont know if this will ever be at all romantic LOL, idk what to tag cause idk what this will be
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:22:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23726767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/velvetvelour/pseuds/velvetvelour
Summary: So, here’s the thing; You’ve never been a staunch believer in the paranormal, but you wouldn’t really consider your feelings so strong in the opposite direction as to warrant the title of a skeptic. If asked whether or not you believe in ghosts, you’d be liable to answer with a nondescript shrug. The beginning and end of the matter is that you truly have no clue either way.But… at this point, you’re well past the point of having some suspicions. You knew the rent had to be so cheap for some reason.
Relationships: Walter Sullivan & Reader, Walter Sullivan/Reader
Comments: 21
Kudos: 44





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is very niche of me. like, i'd-be-shocked-to-get-over-100-reads-in-a-month type niche. but, i'm posting it anyway, because i really like the silent hill games, and walter is one of my favorite characters.
> 
> i don't have a long term set plan and trajectory for this; i just wanted to write something about him, and came up with a basic concept. if anyone reading this is coming from my alucard story, this will likely end up as a drabble collection similar to that, assuming i can continue past a couple chapters. 
> 
> (considering this happens post-canon and the main character is the one who the game essentially revolves around, this will eventually contain heavy spoilers, and if you're at all interested in this game, i recommend watching a playthrough at least before reading this. you don't even need to know anything about the first 3 games to understand it, and its a wonderful and tragic story. and, for those who are very familiar with the game such as myself, prepare for a bulky, probably long winded author's note at the end as well full of spoilers detailing my choice of game ending, interpretation of events, and all that which would lead to this situation, because i love to talk about this shit.) 
> 
> without further ado, i dedicate this story to all the very, very sparse walter stans out there.

There’s something odd about room 302 of the South Ashfield Heights apartment complex.

You probably should’ve expected a catch from the get-go; the just-lower-than-your-lowest-expectation rent, the lack of neighbors, and that apprehensive look in the superintendent’s eyes when he handed you the key, it all seemed too coincidental. His conscience required that he inform you to some degree of the strange occurrences in the history of that room--unexplained noises, reclusive former tenants, general weird happenings, and not to mention the mysterious and tragic deaths and injuries that have occurred on and around the premises--and even then, you could feel that he wasn’t painting you the full picture.

But, hell, how could you let a couple of ghost stories scare you away from affordable rent without roommates in a pretty good neighborhood? Even if a few residents were killed in the past,  _ sure, _ it’s tragic, but the damage has long since been done, and you found the odds of some psycho killer coming back to get  _ you  _ in particular for whatever reason to be very, very low.

So, you moved in, and the place is great; you’ve never had this much space to yourself before, and as bland and drab as the apartment may be, you’ll certainly be able to spruce it up to your liking soon enough. Your job is nearby, there’s a subway station right outside the complex, and plenty of stores around to keep you fed and entertained. For a while, you couldn’t believe your luck in finding this place.

But, of course, there’s always a catch.

It wasn’t much at first. Misplaced items would turn up in the wrong places, strange chills would fill the air even with the windows closed shut, and the occasional cabinet door would creak open right before your eyes. It was nothing you couldn’t just ignore, or explain away as something else to sleep peacefully at night.

But now, of course, the windows have begun to rattle and shake at all hours, footsteps follow your paces through the apartment, pictures fall randomly from the walls and the television sometimes turns on to blaring static in the dead of night.

...Okay.

So, here’s the thing; You’ve never been a staunch believer in the paranormal, but you wouldn’t really consider your feelings so strong in the opposite direction as to warrant the title of a skeptic. If asked whether or not you believe in ghosts, you’d be liable to answer with a nondescript shrug. The beginning and end of the matter is that you truly have no clue either way.

But… at this point, you’re well past the point of having some suspicions. You knew the rent had to be so cheap for  _ some  _ reason.

With these perplexing disturbances afflicting your newly-began homelife, no one can really fault you for deciding to buy the old ouija board you came across by chance at the thrift store--well, no one except for the suspicious old lady who rang you up, you suppose. It couldn’t hurt to try, right? Either you’ll get some sort of satisfying confirmation through this $10 toy and learn to live with your haunted apartment, or nothing will happen and you’ll chalk it all up to coincidence and paranoia. Problem solved--probably.

When, one increasingly anxiety ridden week later, you finally gain the confidence to set it up at the table in your living room, you’re surprised to find how nervous you actually are to try it out. 

Clammy for no real reason, your hands descend upon the carved wooden planchette, a fingertip from each hand pressing lightly onto its surface. You inhale, and exhale deeply.

“...Is anyone here?” You cringe nearly as soon as the words leave your mouth. There really isn’t a way to say something like that without sounding like a phony paranormal investigator from a TV show.

But still, you focus, trying desperately to sense any movement in the piece of wood beneath your touch, and to keep still as a statue so you won’t accidentally move the thing yourself. There might be something, you think with an anxious palpitation of your heart, but it’s too hard to tell if it’s the planchette being tugged on or just your hands shaking in anticipation. You squeeze your eyes shut and hold your breath, keeping your mind blank, attuning your senses to feel only the vibrations at your fingertips, willing your heartbeat to calm and ignoring the ache that starts to form from how tightly your arms are tensed up, just feeling, feeling as carefully as you can, and,

It moves.

Suddenly, the planchette is yanked from under your fingertips, sliding against the wooden board with the sound of a harsh scrape, and your eyes fly open to find it sitting above the word, “yes.” 

“Shit,” you sigh out sharply, eyes wide in shock, and your heart hammers away in your chest.

It takes you a moment to regulate your breathing, and your eyes glance anxiously around the room in search of… something, but there’s nothing to see. Shakily, you return your fingers to the planchette, though with what just happened, you’re unsure if that’s even necessary.

“What’s your name?” you choke out next. There’s a few seconds of nothing before, once again, the little device is snatched out from under your feeble gasp, and your hands recoil back in response as it slides across the surface.

_ W A L T E R _

Walter… Something in your brain itches. It’s not an especially common name, and you know you’ve heard it somewhere recently.

“Hello, Walter,” you say, trying to sound amicable in spite of the shudder in your voice. It moves again.

_ H I _

Despite yourself, a small, quivering laugh springs from your mouth as you process the response. You clear your throat, crossing your arms to your chest as you ready your next question.

“Um...do you want to be friends?” A little juvenile maybe, but how else are you supposed to talk to a ghost?

The ensuing pause is long enough that it begins to unnerve you. Is it this difficult of a question to answer? Have you somehow managed to get on this ghost’s bad side already? That wouldn’t bode well for you, you’re certain.

Eventually, the planchette does move, but not quickly and precisely as it did before; it moves in a slow, deliberate, grating scrape to land once again over the word, “yes.”

You exhale. 

“Good,” you sigh, “that’s good. It’s nice to meet you, Walter.”

Walter doesn’t spell anything else in response. You think he must be waiting for you to ask another question, so you begin to wrack your brain, but before you can decide on one, there’s one last quick scrape across the ouija board that draws your eye back to it.

GOODBYE

You stare at it for a moment, almost dumbfounded until it hits you that he’s ended the conversation.

“Oh, goodbye…”

...But he must still be around, right? A chill runs down your spine. Another apprehensive, cursory glance around the apartment finds nothing out of the ordinary--for now, at least. The only difference is that now, you know for certain that he’s here with you somewhere. Walter.

This… is going to take some getting used to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (once again, heavy spoilers below. and feel free to skip this if you, like, just dont care abt the lore, cause this is very long)
> 
> okay, i'm going with the assumption that this takes place after the best possible ending, wherein the ritual is stopped and henry and eileen both make it out alive. however, even though walter appeared to be killed at the end of the game, i don't necessarily think that means he has to have disappeared completely; rather, the ritual was interrupted and failed, and in doing so, walter's supernatural abilities were stripped from him and the nightmare world that he created was destroyed. there's no reason his soul couldn't survive this, hence him being here as a regular degular ghost instead of the super-ultra-mega ghost he was in the game, and bearing an attachment to room 302 for obvious reasons.
> 
> if any of you have seen the video by thegamingmuse on youtube about walter's character, that is very similar to my own interpretation of him (so i would recommend watching it if you havent, its a good video). in summary, walter did not have any violent or sadistic tendencies in his childhood or even before he began the ritual, and he was living a relatively normal (albeit probably antisocial) life as a college student with a part time job up until that point, so my interpretation is that rather than suddenly "snapping" and deciding to go on a sadistic murder spree, the demon valtiel (who was implanted into his subconscious against his will by the order) basically ate away at his mind to the point of overpowering most of his free will and personality (small glimpses can be seen when he gives henry the doll, and when he stops himself from killing eileen, and it even seems like he subconsciously gives henry and eileen the chance to stop him) and amplifying his desperation to be with his mother by any means necessary in conjunction with his delusions from the cult's brainwashing, therefore compelling him to perform the ritual. i dont think he was necessarily a puppet on a string, but rather that he was being very strongly influenced by a force that overpowered his actual conscience, and even if he was guilt ridden by his actions on the inside (of which there is evidence), it makes sense that he wouldnt have had much left in him to fight against it after the life he was forced to live.
> 
> however, when walter was "killed" by henry and the ritual failed, i imagine that valtiel's influence was severed from him, and the ghost that was left has returned to an uncorrupted and free version of walter, albiet one that is very aware of his prior actions. and that is where we leave off.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 15 reads, woohoo! LOL. i certainly can't be greedy with this story, but to any other silent hill fans out there (especially those who enjoy the apparent black sheep of the team silent entries, my beloved sh4), i would love it if you would spare the time to leave a comment, and i'd be happy to have a little chat down there! its very rare that i find others who like this poor, sad, dying, BEAUTIFUL franchise.

You realize quickly that merely accepting the presence of a ghost in your apartment and moving on with this information is, frankly, not going to work out for you.

It’s difficult to sleep when your mind can’t stop dwelling on the fact that he could be right there watching you, and every time you open a door, part of you expects to see him standing there. Not to mention how uncomfortable it feels to change your clothes or take a shower. 

You need to speak with him again.

Maybe, if you can find out a little more about him, you’ll be able to tell what kind of person he is, and hopefully find him to be nonthreatening. At the very least, you might just get a little more comfortable with the knowledge that he’s constantly here, and worse case scenario, you can simply kiss your shabby dream apartment goodbye and look for housing elsewhere. Though, you’d hate to give up so easily.

The ouija board (which a part of you considered just tossing in the trash after last time) is quick to find and set up at your living room table once again, but this time, you don’t even get a chance to take a breath and put your fingers on the planchette before it begins zooming around on its own.

H E L L O

“...Hi, Walter,” you greet a little breathlessly. Jeez. How long will it take to get used to seeing that thing zip around on its own, you wonder? “I wanted to talk a little more, is that okay?”

YES

“Alright, um… how old are you?”

2 4

That gives you pause. You really didn’t expect him to have died so young; so close to your own age. It occurs to you that he might be one of the poor souls who was killed around here, but that’s certainly not a topic you’ll want to bring up anytime soon.

“Did you used to live here?”

NO

“Are you… stuck here? In this apartment?”

YES

“That’s a little strange,” you mutter. Once again, you’ll refrain from asking if that means he died here, for now at least--bringing up potentially awful memories doesn’t seem like the best way to make friends with a spirit that may or may not have it in him to make your life miserable. He doesn’t give you a chance to speak again.

S C A R E D

“...You’re scared?” you guess, and you feel a chill over whatever _that_ might mean.

NO

“Oh, um,” you furrow your brow. “Are you asking if _I’m_ scared?”

YES

You take a moment to consider it. Of course, your primary instinct is to blurt out something along the lines of “No, of course not, not at all!” but you know that wouldn’t be entirely truthful, and you wouldn’t want to get caught in a lie. But at the same time, you aren’t really sure. The idea of a ghost constantly floating around your home, potentially watching your every move certainly makes you feel _anxious,_ but are you really scared of him? It never occurred to you that he might be physically dangerous, but if he was, you don’t think he’d bother to speak with you like this at all. Wouldn’t you have just turned tail and started searching for new housing by now if you really thought the idea of a ghost in your house was that frightening? 

“...No,” you decide, then click your tongue. “Well, okay, a little bit. I’ve never… lived with a ghost before, so it’s a bit unnerving, but… If we’re going to be friends, then I have no reason to be scared, right?”

There’s a pause before his response, just a little longer than you’d prefer.

F R I E N D

“Yes, friends. I want to be friends.”

The planchette starts to move, a little in one direction, then another, and another, until it appears to just be shaking, and you watch in confusion. What does _that_ mean? It pauses, then shoots right back into action.

W E A K

“Oh, is it difficult to move it around for long?” This time, it moves slowly and erratically, like it’s just barely being dragged along.

YES

A thought occurs to you suddenly; something you’ve been wondering since you first confirmed his existence.

“Walter, when all of those… things happen, like the windows rattling, and the cabinets opening, and all that--do you do it on purpose?”

Nothing, for a while. Then, one last difficult scrape.

GOODBYE

You frown. Did he really just run out of juice, or was that a shameless avoidance of the question? Either way, you’ll apparently have to continue this conversation later.

Well, at least you've got a little more information to mull over until then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i promise, things will get interesting eventually, LOL.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one was fun to write. i must warn you all that i still dont really have a narrative plan for this, but ideas keep flowing to me, so i suppose i'll just roll with it!

It’s strange; the next time you try to speak with Walter, he’s nowhere to be seen, but you know that he’s around. The door opened on it’s own when you left your bedroom in the morning, and the water began running in your sink out of nowhere just as you were fetching the board from where you kept it tucked away. Has he gotten shy?

Your mind returns to some of the last words he gave you yesterday. Weak. He said it’s difficult to communicate for long. 

Perhaps he cannot control his effect on the physical world as well as you previously assumed. It didn’t occur to you that he might be involuntarily affecting the room, or that he isn’t always in control of it. 

Well, that might be for the best. A weak ghost is certainly not as scary as a strong ghost. But, a part of you does wonder, if he were to gain a little more control, would he then stop wreaking havoc on your amenities and electronics? Maybe he’d be able to speak a little longer as well, and you could even find a way to speak more efficiently, like with a pen and paper. 

But, well, you can’t discount the possibility that he isn’t quite as nice as you perceive him to be; if he were stronger, he might use that strength to torment you in ways he couldn’t before. You really don’t know who this man is, after all.

The TV switches on in front of you, and the voice of a news reporter fills the silence of the apartment. You bite at your cheek for a moment, then reach over to the end of the table and take a pen, placing it down in front of you.

“Walter?” you try. Though the ouija board still sits before you, he still does not use it. You frown.

“Can you try something for me? See if you can pick up this pen.”

You stare at it, waiting, and a few seconds pass before it starts to shake a little, roll, and eventually one side of it lifts slightly from the surface, no more than an inch or two high. It still shakes in his “grasp,” and a moment later falls completely, rolling off the side of the table.

“Thanks,” you mutter thoughtfully. Nothing will get done at this rate.

Maybe… you can help him.

You don’t really know what you’re doing when you open the door of the metaphysical shop and hear the plethora of chimes overhead announcing your arrival. You’ve walked past it a couple times without thinking much of it, but you couldn’t think of anywhere else to turn for these purposes. 

The place is empty, but looks well maintained. Dark emerald walls curl around the shop, plastered with faded diagrams about palm reading, chakras, astrological signs, and the like. Half of the place is lined with books on shelves that nearly reach the ceiling, and at the opposite side is the register, sitting above a glass display case filled with little statues, decorative bowls, and what look to be ritual knives. There’s a display on top of it as well, bearing tiers of rocks and crystals, all named in permanent marker on sticker labels. The wall behind the counter has jars upon jars of herbs and oils, some of which you’ve never even heard the name of in your life. The rest of the store is filled with claustrophobic displays of pretty much anything else you’d expect to find in a shop like this; candles in all different colors and sizes, necklaces and rings with insignia you do not recognize, some larger statues that are likely meant for shrines, and even somewhat humorously stereotypical items like crystal balls and cauldrons. It feels… cozy, if not a little bit liminal.

Incense burns idly at the counter; you don’t recognize the scent, but it feels so familiar that it almost makes you nauseous.

It only takes a couple minutes of your casual perusing before someone emerges through a beaded curtain at the back of the store. He looks exactly how you’d expect someone who works at this kind of store to look, but he somehow also takes you off guard. 

He’s tall enough that he almost has to duck as he steps through the doorway, with wiry blue-black hair that waves almost down to his butt, and lighter, salt and pepper roots that betray his age. Frameless, thin, rectangular glasses sit about halfway down his nose, and his clothes are so dark and loose that you can’t tell where his shirt ends and his cardigan begins. He smiles at you, just a little too late, and steps behind the counter. 

“Looking for something in particular?”

You clear your throat. Hopefully, this man of all people won’t think you’re a loony for what you’re about to say.

“Well, sort of, um… This might sound weird, but I recently found out that there’s a... ghost in my apartment.” You hesitate a little, just to gauge his reaction, but thankfully, his face doesn’t change in the slightest.

“Ah, so you want to get rid of a ghost?” he surmises. He speaks just a little slower than seems natural.

“No, actually, uhm-- Wait, you can do that?” For some reason, that never occurred to you as an option.

“It can be done.” Something about his tone of voice tells you that’s a loaded statement.

Though you pause blankly for a moment, you eventually shake your head. “No, no, I mean, that’s not why I’m here. The thing is, well, he can talk to me through a ouija board, but he can’t keep it up for very long, and it seems like--Like, the things he makes happen in my apartment, I think… I don’t know if he’s doing it all on purpose, so, I thought that…” 

“You want to... _ help _ the spirit?” Somehow, the man sounds both interested and skeptical.

“Yeah, I guess,” you say, but you feel a little stupid admitting it. “I figured that if he could get a little… I dunno,  _ stronger _ , then he might be able to stop all of the, uh, reactions he causes all the time, and maybe I could figure out who he actually is.”

“If his haunting bothers you, wouldn’t it be easier to just be rid of him?” 

You’re a little taken aback. “...Probably, but, well, if I was a ghost, I don’t think I’d feel very good about that.”

His chest rumbles in what you suppose might be a laugh.

“I do wonder if you aren’t being taken advantage of.”

“...I don’t think so. He didn’t ask me to do this. I didn’t even tell him.”

“That doesn’t mean that he isn’t just playing a game,” he counters, and leaves you stunned silent. “...But, I suppose if you trust this entity, I might have something of use for you.”

You don’t say anything, and he reaches around to the crystal display, snatching one up and placing it down before you. It’s white, sort of pearly, and looks like a cluster of smaller prisms all smashed together, but you wouldn’t say it looks particularly magical or impressive.

“Apophyllite,” he explains. “I expect your visitor will be able to derive some energy from this. Though, I’m not sure how far only one crystal will get you…”

You sigh. “Two, then?”

He makes an unsure face.

“I won’t buy any more than three,” you decide.

“Three it is,” he says, sounding somewhat pleased. “Three is a very special number, you know. The power that can be derived from three together will surely be enough to give you what you’re looking for. Though, I must let you know, an anointing oil in conjunction is sure to--”

“Just the rocks, please,” you interrupt politely. You’ve already been roped in to buying three pretty stones that may well be all style with no substance. 

The man grins “...Of course.”

As you leave the little shop, paper bag in hand and chimes sounding above your head once more, you make a strong mental note to not come back.

Something about the smell of that incense sticks in your mind even when the store is far behind you. Your head aches all the way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is absolutely unrelated, but i keep listening to the song sleep by my chemical romance while writing this; it really, really reminds me of walter, almost every line in the song, and i took the title of this fic from it as well.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am far from a horror writer, but given that this is a tangentially silent hill related story, i do intend to at least infect it with a continual degree of unnervingness.

As you close your apartment door behind you, you almost want to hide your purchase.

For some reason, it’s a little embarrassing to have gone out and done this behind his invisible back; and it’ll be doubly so if it turns out to not work at all. But there’s no point in waiting, you suppose. And, hell, if it doesn’t do anything, maybe you’ll even be able to march right back into that little store and get a refund!

“Walter,” you call out as you kick off your shoes and make your way towards the living room couch again. There’s no indication that he’s nearby, but you find it hard to believe that he’s ignoring you completely. “Um, I got something.”

You sit down and place the paper bag on the table before you, a little stumped on how to proceed. Perhaps you should’ve asked for further instruction.

“It’s, um--I think it will help you,” you continue, and there’s still nothing at all to imply that he’s around. Not even the slightest creak of a door, or drop in the room’s temperature. 

You wait a moment more for anything, then sigh, and elect to retrieve the three crystals from the bag, placing them on the table before you in a triangular formation. Really, you still don’t see anything particularly special about them, but who knows.

“I don’t really know what you’re supposed to do with them.” It feels now more than ever like you’re speaking to an empty room. “But, I just thought I should try something, since you probably can’t really help yourself.”

A moment later, you hear a muted click. Another one, and you realize it must be footsteps. They travel from your kitchen, slowly making their way over and stopping at the table beside you. Without even meaning to, the anticipation had you holding your breath. 

“...Maybe if you touch them?” you breathe, staring anxiously around the spot where the sounds let off. 

It’s then that you notice something strange. You don’t feel right, all of the sudden, and there’s this subtle weight of dread that begins to grow on your mind. Your skin feels sharp, almost electrically charged, and it feels like something deep inside of you is reacting to something, like a thin line of wire is wrapped around every muscle in your body and tugging you in all different directions. Nothing hurts you, exactly, but it feels so wrong that an urge wells up in you to just smash the damn things. 

Something feels like it’s swelling; not inside of you, but on that table, pushing and pulling, growing and tightening all at once, invisible to the eye but oppressive nonetheless. You need to stop it--you  _ need  _ to stop it.

Until, suddenly, it stops on its own. 

It takes your mind a moment to catch up with what’s happening. That loud shrill sound--the crystals bursting, fragments shooting across the room violently. A flash of light and a woosh of air, bright and hard enough to make you squint your eyes shut, and to flourish the curtains. A crack--wood splitting, a fractured line in the table in the space between where the crystals once sat. And finally, the pain, the tickling sensation of something running down your cheek. A shard of crystal must’ve nicked you there, because when you press your fingers to it, they come back bright red. Your arm hurts as you raise it as well, and you look down, almost dazed, to see another little shard stabbed shallowly into your bicep and pluck it out with little hesitation. 

“Walter…?” You look around, searching again for any sign of his presence. “Did it...work? Where are you?”

Nothing. You stand up quickly, rifling through your things until you find a sheet of paper, and returning to place it on the table beside the pen from earlier, from which you remove the cap as well.

“Can you use this?”

As you wait, you’re tempted to call out for him again, but just as you inhale to speak, the pen raises swiftly from the table and your breath turns into a gasp. It maneuvers slightly around until the tip presses against the paper’s surface and begins to move.

_ Thank You _

To call the writing messy would be an understatement. Really, as you stare at the two words, scrawled out largely and messily on the page irrespective of the faint blue lines that would steady them, you think that this must be what the term chicken scratch was meant to describe. You almost forget, for a moment, that the fact that he was even able to write it in the first place is significant.

“You’re welcome,” you say, and can’t help but smile a bit in disbelief. “Wow, I... I really thought that old man was scamming me. Do you feel better now?”

_ Why _

You pause, but the answer comes without difficulty. “I just thought you might be able to communicate a little better. And, um, maybe stop setting my TV off at three in the morning.”

_ Your bleeding _

Oh, right! Your attention turns back to the sharp little ache in your arm, and the ticklish feeling of blood travelling down your neck from your cheek, which you wipe at quickly to cut off.

“It’s not so bad,” you assure. “Just a second, I’ll clean it up.”

You stand up quickly, intending to run to the bathroom, address the minor bleeding, and return to the conversation, but you’re stopped in your tracks after only a few steps when your shoulder collides unexpectedly with something solid--solid, yet invisible. The yelp that leaves your mouth is an octave or so higher than you expected to hear from yourself, and your feet are rooted to the ground as you clutch the affected (yet uninjured) shoulder in shock, staring wide eyed at the empty space beside the table.

“Was--was that  _ you?” _ you ask, a little more accusatory than you intended, but it startled you so horribly that you feel a little lightheaded from how fast your heart races.

Frantically, your eyes return to the paper sitting on the table and the pen, which now sits inanimately flat against its wood surface. There’s nothing at all; no answer, no acknowledgment, and no longer a trace of Walter’s presence. Though, as you wait for a response, your expectations of receiving one dwindling by the second, you eventually hear the undeniable creak of an old and neglected door hinge slowly pivoting open.

It only takes a couple steps towards your previous destination to find that the bathroom door waits patiently for your entry.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm well aware that this is scraps, but given the unexpected turnout for what i expected to be my least popular story by far, i feel bad making you all wait too much longer. as i've mentioned before, i don't have an overarching plot in mind while writing this, which is why my updates are fully dependent on whatever i think up next + how often my interest in it springs up, rather than pre-planned story beats (though i do have a few pending ideas in mind). i can't say i have any idea when the next chapter will drop, what with my 59 works currently in progress, but i hope you all enjoy this in the meantime.

The first glimpse you catch of him is in your bathroom mirror.

At least, you think it’s him; it happens so quickly, so briefly that you only really catch a flash of dark blue and the vague impression of a face. Some blonde hair, you think.

It leaves you frozen, gawking awfully at the space around you in your reflection with your toothbrush in one hand, and you find that you can’t dare to look behind you in the real world without a sharp breath of preparation. There is, of course, no one there, but the flicker of what you saw burns prevalently in your memory for the rest of the day.

You haven’t contacted Walter for a day or so since what happened before; something about the behavior you were met with left a perpetual chill in your stomach that flares up whenever you think of it, and you can’t help but wonder if you were too hasty in your willingness to help this entity. You thought it the most sympathetic way to solve the problem, and while the hauntings throughout your apartment have lessened considerably in the short time since, it remains to be seen if the trade-off was truly worth it. Perhaps a somewhat bothersome yet ultimately harmless spirit would’ve been preferable to a quieter and more capable one.

That man at the shop, you’re certain there was knowledge he refrained from sharing with you--undoubtedly so as not to compromise the impending sale. Knowledge that would’ve made you a little more cognizant of what, exactly, you were getting yourself into. You consider going back there and interrogating him a little more, but, well, it’s not as though you’ve been given a distinct reason for concern. For the time being, you know it’s only your anxieties getting the better of you. 

Despite your avoidance, Walter has not reached out to you himself in any significant manner (though, as you contemplate this, you swear you catch another hint of blue in your peripheral vision). If that tells you anything, he may simply be patient, content to exist in quiet solitude until you summon him again. Or, perhaps, he finds your interaction with him is inconsequential, and blatantly does not care if you choose to speak to him or not.

Part of you is compelled to call on him again (what if he is waiting, and his patience has a limit?) but another part is equally averse to doing so, in hopes that maybe your help will allow him to move on, or at least take his presence elsewhere--though, if that is an aspiration of his, he seems to be in no rush to do so. 

Your mind turns to an earlier notion; speak to him kindly, cautiously learn more about him, become enough of a friendly figure to him that you’re unlikely to land yourself on his bad side, if such a side to him exists. Given the situation, this seems the safest course of action, albeit still one step behind banishing him altogether. But, no, you still think you’d feel awful for resorting to that drastic of a measure in response to something that may be wholly innocent.

You sit down and lean forward on the couch, picking up the abandoned piece of paper and looking once more at the scratchy handwriting on its surface. It looks almost childlike in its messiness, and you might be crazy for thinking so, but that gives it an endearing quality in your eyes. Ghosts are freaky no matter who they are, but they still used to be  _ people _ . 

There’s a sound like a muffled creak from right beside you--the old couch adjusting to weight. Your eyes remain glued on the paper, perhaps even more intensely, and your entire right side feels very cold all of the sudden.

Okay. Alright. You lean forward a little bit more and return the paper to the table, but it’s then that you notice the pen has disappeared. Your first thought is that it must’ve rolled off the table when you weren’t paying attention, but you don’t dare look for it. In fact, you’re finding it pretty difficult to look anywhere other than straight ahead. But, hell, you might as well rip off the band-aid. It’s not like you can sit here frozen all day. So, all at once, you lean back from the table and look to your right.

The cold hits you right in the face as well, almost like you’ve submerged it underwater.

There is a man sitting beside you.

An awful noise wrenches out of your throat, somewhere between a wail and a forceful cough, and you jump horribly where you sit, leaning your whole body away from him on impulse. Your blood runs ice cold, and your mind draws blank, conjuring half-formulated questions that you are unequipped to answer.

“You’re... Walter?” you ask, as strange as it may feel, and your voice curls and shudders in shock, but the words escape audibly.

During your little episode, the visitor doesn’t do much. He only sits there in his large blue coat, still as a statue (albeit a comfortably slouching one) and making no move to touch you or to speak. You aren’t even sure if he’s really looking at you, with how spacy his gaze is. But when you speak, he seems to ground himself as he nods in confirmation.

For some reason, it’s comforting enough for you to relax a little, assuming a less frightened posture, but your hands are still shaking in your lap. You expected him to be a little more… translucent, in all honesty. Perhaps blue and glowy. The apparent ghost that shares your couch is almost indistinguishable from a human being.

You find yourself dumbfounded. He looks so… alive. A very paranoid part of you wonders if this isn’t just a real man, like a would-be stalker who has invaded your home and is going along with your little ghost fantasy. But… no, you’ve caught a glimpse of him before, and he looks too familiar. This has to be him.

“...Something’s wrong?” he asks when you’re quiet for a moment, with a voice that is calm and, dare you say it, benign, though the shock of hearing it makes your eyes pop even further out of your skull.

“No, no, it’s just… a little strange to actually see you.”

He says no more, so you steel yourself and continue. You wanted to get to know him, didn’t you? And so the unprepared interview begins.

“...How long have you been here?”

He looks dreamily around the room, as though it were somewhere both novel and nostalgic for him.

“A long time… But, like this, not very long at all.” Something about the way he talks is very deliberate; slow, thought out, you’d almost call it theatrical, and it conflicts with his ragged and unkempt appearance. It sounds vaguely like he’s reading from a script, performing for some unseen audience, rather than addressing you beside him in particular. His hair, wavy and blonde, looks passable, but routinely neglected, as does the clothing he wears.

“What do you mean, ‘like this?’”

He fiddles with his hands, looking down at them almost meekly. “Here. In this room alone.”

You do recall him mentioning before that he believes himself stuck. Almost nervously, you clear your throat a couple times. “I’m...sorry. I’m sure it must be boring here.”

“...No.” His lips are pulled into a hint of a smile, and as unnerving at that probably should be, you find it more along the lines of reassuring. Better a happy ghost than an angry one. “Not at all.” 

You aren’t sure what else to say on such short notice; he seems to have finished speaking with you as well, as his eyes float towards the paper on the table before you. In the profile of his face, you can see he wears an expression that suggests he thinks something is funny as he reaches for the pen and awkwardly scrawls out the word “goodbye” across the page. Before he can even release the pen, Walter fades away.

You pause, unbreathing, and then exhale deeply, slumping over yourself as you do. Though your heart beats a marathon in your chest, you're well aware that this whole encounter could’ve gone at least a hundred times worse than it actually did.

This is a situation you can deal with. Walter’s real, Walter looks like a person, he is at the very least complacent, and he’s definitely not going anywhere.

That's livable, right? That's...better than another round of house hunting, probably.  


You can handle this. 

...Oh, but where the hell did he run off to this time? There's only around 600 square feet to choose from!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not much to say about this one. been on sort of an update spree, thought i'd take a look at my walter doc, finished the next chapter, and here it is. hope you enjoy!

So, as it turns out, ghosts are very,  _ very  _ real.

...Alright, it’s safe to say that you already knew that at this point, but seeing the ghost himself rather than just the evidence of his existence really drives the point home in a way that nothing else could. There’s a 24 year old deceased man taking residence in your apartment, and now you know what he looks like.

Naturally, you’ll have to make a routine of seeing him, whether you like it or not.

If the previous interaction is any indication, though, you could see yourself getting to like it. He may have startled the living hell out of you at first sight, but the little conversation you shared, while patently strange, was not exactly unpleasant, and by now, Walter is starting to seem rather familiar to you. You may have only seen and spoke to him once, but he’s been around since the moment you moved in. 

Hell, he’s the only friend you can truly say you’ve made in this apartment complex, sad as that may be. Might as well see what he’s up to.

As you drink your morning coffee, you sit yourself on your couch, wondering how you should approach this. Now that he can appear so fully to you, will he continue to do that from now on? Or, will that be an occasional thing? You aren’t sure how hard it might be for him to appear physically in front of you, and even if it isn’t hard, he might still prefer a different method.

Just in case, you set your coffee down and retrieve a fresh piece of paper, setting it down neatly and placing the uncapped pen at it’s side. Though, by the time you’ve finished that quick task and looked up, you notice that your visitor has already arrived, standing at the other side of the table from you. You jump again at the sight of him, but not so horribly as the first time; you did intend for him to show up, after all.

“Guess you…don’t really need this, huh?” you mutter with an awkward chuckle. At least this seems to have answered your questions.

He just looks at you. You can’t tell if he’s smiling or not.

“Um, I wanted to… talk a little more, if that’s alright.”

“Why?”

You blink a couple times. “I just… want to know more about you.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and tilts his head forward until his hair covers each side of his face like curtains. “...Why?”

“Well, if you’re stuck here, and I’m going to be living here, then wouldn’t it be best for us to know each other a little more?”

“You won’t be here for long,” he says. You frown.

“How do you know that?”

He takes his eyes off of you for a moment to trail them almost wistfully around the apartment, allowing a lengthy silence to precede his words.

“...This is my home. I’m going to be here forever.” That...seemed to answer a different question than the one you asked.

“Did you live here, then? When you were alive?”

“I never had a home. This is my home.”

“...Oh,” you sigh with sympathy, though what exactly that was meant to imply eludes you. This conversation is proving much more difficult than the last. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

He looks at you thoughtfully.

“...Then… how did you end up here?” you continue.

“I was born here. It makes sense that I would return.”

It’s safe to say that he’s entirely lost you. A nebulous moment passes by.

“Um… Do you like the color blue?” Maybe it’s better to start with something simple.

He only continues to stare at you. Then, slowly, his gaze draws directly upwards, presumably at the ceiling, and after a pause so long that you assume you won’t receive a response, his eyes suddenly shift down to his coat; the object that sparked your question.

“I never thought about it before,” he says, uninterpretably. “It was never asked. But, I think so.”

You’re nearly dumbfounded.  _ “...No one _ ever asked you your favorite color?”

“It didn’t matter.”

What kind of life did this guy live? It almost offends you on his behalf. “Well, it matters to me,” you insist. 

Walter’s eyes rise to meet with your own again, and slowly, with stuttering, aching tugs, the corners of his mouth pull into the first  _ real  _ smile you’ve seen from him. A shiver runs down your spine. 

“What is yours?”

“Oh, um…” You pause--maybe it was hypocritical to ask about his color preferences when you don’t readily have much of your own. After a moment of thought, you shrug. “I...haven’t thought about it in awhile. I don’t really have a favorite.”

At that, Walter looks slowly around the room. It takes you a moment to realize he must be scanning through your sparse belongings, and simultaneously, it occurs to you how little you’ve begun to make the space your own and improve on the basic, dreary color scheme of white and beige. If he’s trying to help figure out your favorite color, there’s not much to choose from. 

He gives up after a minute or so, looking back at you, and then apparently changing his mind and looking back down at his coat again. Another, fainter smile adorns his face and he raises one of his arms, almost as though showing you his sleeve.

“...Why not blue?” he suggests.

You blink at him, then muffle a snort into a quiet exhale. It’s uncannily endearing, that little expression on his face, somewhere between sly and content--like he’s very pleased with his own idea. It’d be difficult not to humor him.

“Sure,” you agree, meeting his smile with one of your own. Blue’s as fine a color as any, you suppose. “We can both like blue.”

He nods once, sealing the deal. Then, his arms lowers, and his gaze descends lethargically to the table between you. The next time you blink, he’s gone.

The surprise of how abruptly he vanishes makes you jump just slightly.

“...Walter?” 

Why would he leave in the middle of a conversation? In fact, why does he  _ always  _ leave in the middle of your conversations? Hoping maybe to find him having relocated rather than disappeared entirely, you take a second to glance around, but your eyes are quickly drawn back in front of you by a scratching sound. Walter is still gone, but the pen has risen to the paper, scrawling out an erratic message.

_ STill heRe! _

...When the pen drops, you sigh. You could’ve figured that out yourself, to be perfectly honest, but you suppose it’s still nice to be informed.

Though his whims may still elude you, you’re pretty sure this counts as progress.


End file.
